


A Brief History of Angelic Love

by triedunture



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Excessive Drinking, Footnotes, Lingerie, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Regency, Renaissance Era, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Blitz, Tops Who Cry: the Anthony J Crowley Story, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: Unfortunately Aziraphale has fallen in love with a demon, and as we all know, demons can't love.Related: Aziraphale finds that wearing sweet, soft, lacy things can be quite soothing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 113
Kudos: 735
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Most Favs, South Downs Holiday-ish Exchange, Top Crowley Library





	A Brief History of Angelic Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



The first time, it was not a good fit.

Aziraphale stood in front of the mirror in his luxurious little jewel-box of a room on the top floor of the palazzo, turning this way and that to view himself in the shifting candlelight. The garment cut into his flesh, a patch of white atop his already pale skin. He filled it to overflowing, this new finery of his. Outside, the noise of revelry rose and fell even now, far past midnight. Somewhere close by, a minor explosion went off accompanied by a shower of sparks. He paid it no mind as he studied his reflection. 

Though not tailored to his size, he found the effect nonetheless pleasing.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Leaping in too soon. En medias res, as they say. To understand why Aziraphale was dressed in but one ill-fitting scrap of fabric, we must go back in time. Not very far, just to that afternoon. 

This was the 15th century, by the way. Venice, as it happens. Here, let's write it on a signpost to guide you.

The 15th century had a lot of things going for it in Aziraphale's opinion. He didn't have to wear armor anymore, for a start. To an outside observer, a full suit of armor might look rather stylish, but after a few minutes of actually wearing the blasted thing, it ceases to be fun. Now Aziraphale found himself outfitted much more comfortably: gossamer hose, fine linen shirt, rich cream doublet slashed with sky blue silk, jeweled belt, a natty brimless hat trimmed in white ermine. Yes, he thought. This was more like it. The world seemed to be turning a corner, moving away from those dark, dank times. 

Aziraphale floated through Venice, pleased with the sunny weather and colorful bustle of the crowds in the narrow streets. It was the sort of day that made one feel fondly toward the Earth. He was so enamoured, in fact, that he missed the dark shadow sidling up from behind until it was too late. 

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, popping into view, "fancy running into you here. Are you in town for the Carnivale?" His bright yellow eyes glinted above the curve of his dark spectacles.

"Crowley." Aziraphale flicked his eyes up and down the demon's ensemble. Wearing a black cioppa like that, only a hint of red where his sleeves were pleated—Aziraphale shuddered to think that some might, at a distance, mistake Crowley for a priest. "I'll have you know I am here to bless the construction of a new chapel," he said with a sniff. 

He neglected to mention that he did indeed plan to attend the festivities. He'd heard there would be fried sweets.[1]

"Long way to go for a chapel." Crowley waggled his head. "Don't suppose you've given any more thought to our last discussion, have you?"

"There was no discussion!" Aziraphale sputtered. "I refused to listen to you then, and I shall refuse now!" 

It had been roughly a thousand years since that meeting in the damp Wessex countryside. The whole thing still burned in Aziraphale's memory. Fearsome Black Knight indeed! The absolute cheek, suggesting they both shirk their duties! Just thinking about it made Aziraphale's skin prickle. 

"Is that why you're here?" he asked with deep suspicion. "Have you been sulking about Venice, lying in wait for me?"

If the accusation stung, Crowley showed no sign of it. He crossed the bridge at Aziraphale's side with his hands folded behind his back. "No, just arrived actually. I've been in Austria. Guess what I've cooked up there, go on." His grin was almost boyish; Aziraphale resisted it with heavenly fortitude.

He stopped under a cheerful striped awning to gather himself. Crowley obliged him by stopping as well.

"Must we?" he sighed. Crowley's antics were ever so tiring; he'd have to thwart him, or at least mitigate whatever he'd done, and if this nonsense kept him from trying those Carnivale pastries—! Maybe Crowley had a point. They were working too hard just to cancel each other out.

"Fine, I'll tell you. Well, show you." From the purse belted at his waist, Crowley retrieved what looked like a kerchief but, upon unraveling, revealed itself to be a beast of a different breed. 

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked. He reached out to rub the delicate white lace between his thumb and forefinger. It was as soft as new snow. Touching it was a pleasure.

"Still workshopping the name," Crowley said. "Right now it's between 'breast-bags' or—" 

Aziraphale squawked and tore his hand away. "Breast-bags!?"

"Or 'under-bodice,'" Crowley finished. "Both are mouthfuls, I know. Might try to shorten it somehow." He frowned down at the garment in his hands, fingers filling out the little lace cups that, Aziraphale now saw, were meant to hold the aforementioned body parts.

"I don't understand," said the angel. "How is this fomenting discord?" 

Crowley gave Aziraphale a sly look as if pleased that Aziraphale remembered that word. He stuffed the lacy thing back in his purse. "If I played my cards right, in a few centuries' time, ladies in this part of the world, perhaps even further afield, will be obligated to wear these," he said, patting the purse proudly. 

"And?" Aziraphale prompted. 

Crowley blinked. "And, erm. They'll be damned uncomfortable, angel. Expensive, too, probably. Itchy as anything, most often. That should...I mean, it will definitely…." 

Aziraphale gave him a pitying look. 

The demon huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Right, well, they can't all be winners, can they?"

They both thought about that for a moment, which was all the time it took for Aziraphale to smell rich spices on the air. He turned and saw that they were standing in front of a restaurant, a very popular one. In fact, they were quite blocking the entryway, surrounded by a flow of patrons like two stones in a river.

"Oh, the risotto here is supposed to be quite good," Aziraphale murmured. "It's all anyone is talking about around the Rialto." 

"My turn then?" 

Aziraphale whipped his head about to stare at Crowley, who was looking back at him from behind his dark glasses with casual innocence. "What do you mean, your turn?"

"You treated me back in Rome, didn't you? I should return the favor," Crowley said.[2]

The angel gave him a hard look, which, coming from Aziraphale, was not saying much. "Do you promise not to spoil the meal with talk about your ridiculous ideas? No...proposals about neglecting our duties?" 

Crowley pressed forward in a sidewinder-type way, as if his neck had forgotten it wasn't attached to a snake's body. "Cross my heart, angel."

Aziraphale's insides did something at that declaration, which Aziraphale chalked up to rapid-onset hunger. 

They got a table for two. The risotto was exquisite, and the wine was very good, and Crowley made pleasant conversation as promised. He could actually be quite entertaining when he cared to be. Aziraphale caught himself grinning at Crowley's story of the Austrian countess who was even now probably trying to wriggle into the under-bodice that Crowley had invented for her to wear beneath her dress. 

The other angels weren't nearly such good company, Aziraphale thought. They had no interest in trying new restaurants or drinking wine or—just talking. When was the last time they had spoken to him for reasons other than orders and decrees? Aziraphale gulped his wine. He couldn't recall. 

He also couldn't say with any degree of certainty whether he'd _want_ to be cordial with any of his angelic brethren. Crowley was just, well, so different from them. From anyone, really. Aziraphale had faced off against other demons in the course of his work, but none had been so— 

He watched as Crowley flicked a long strand of red hair[3] from his eyes as he spoke. It glittered in the lamplight.

So nice. To be around. 

It had been such a long time since Rome, since they'd been able to spend an evening talking over dinner, that Aziraphale had nearly forgotten how all-consuming it was. Being in Crowley's company was a little like being drunk, or under a spell.

"And this blasted thing!" Crowley cried, bringing Aziraphale out of his reverie. He tore the scrap of underclothing from his purse and tossed it on the table beside their empty wine glasses. "Put a lot of work into this one. Have you ever knitted lace? It's horrible. And all for nothing!"

"You gave it a good try." He reached across the table and, when he realized with a jolt that he was reaching for Crowley's hand, he covered his misstep by fingering the under-bodice again. "And who knows? Perhaps it will catch on just as you've envisioned. There is something nice about it, isn't there?"

"It's not nice," Crowley snarled. "It's supposed to be evil. Or at least annoying."

Aziraphale watched Crowley refill their wine glasses with a strange feeling in his belly. This time he couldn't attribute it to hunger; he'd eaten his entire dinner plus most of Crowley's. 

"It might be a bit annoying," he said slowly, "but I think it's lovely still." 

It should have been obvious to anyone that he was no longer talking about the lingerie. It was not obvious to Crowley. 

Crowley twisted in his seat, giving Aziraphale a good look at his splendid, pointy profile. "Eh, it's just a tit holder," he said, and drank. 

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale said, but he was at that very moment palming the lacy scrap and secreting it away in the folds of his over-robes. 

Crowley didn't notice this either. (They'd had a lot of wine, after all.) He merely swiveled his head toward the doorway upon hearing a loud swell of gay laughter. Carnivale was in full swing. 

"What do you say, angel?" He nodded at the growing crowds visible through the open door. "Shall we paint the town a certain shade of crimson?"

"Oh, I—" Aziraphale blinked. He wanted nothing more than to prolong the evening with Crowley, but… "Do you plan on doing any tempting tonight?"

Crowley shrugged. "Kind of expected to, aren't I? 'Tis the season. Barely need to try in this atmosphere." 

Aziraphale couldn't hide his disappointment. "In that case, I should probably wish you goodnight. It wouldn't do, the two of us. Cavorting. Whilst you—erm, worked."

Crowley's lips turned down. "Right. Dinner is one thing, but you've got standards." This was not said unkindly, but Aziraphale felt the prick of the words all the same. Crowley tossed a few coins onto the table, more than enough to cover their bill. "This was nice. See you in, oh, another millennium or two, I suppose?" 

The thought of another thousand years without Crowley's company sent Aziraphale into a panic. He could not end the evening without a promise to meet again. Crowley was rising from his chair. Aziraphale's mind raced. How to keep him at the table?

"I've been thinking," he said quickly, "about what you said. Back in Wessex."

Crowley lifted one brow. And sank back into his seat. "Have you?"

"Well, it wouldn't hold water, your idea. As I said, my side would check. The work must be done, one way or another." He toyed with his spoon. "Balance, that's the key. Good and evil in equal measure. The details of how and by whom are, erm, less important than the end result, I suspect."

Yellow eyes widened behind the dark glasses. "What are you saying, angel?"

Aziraphale's tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. He was about to say something that did not just border on treason, but invaded treason's territory completely and set up a good home life alongside it. Oh, but this was wrong. He knew it was wrong. 

He looked across the table at Crowley. Beautiful Crowley, leaning forward to catch his every word, his face a picture of abject glee. 

"I'm saying," he said carefully, "that perhaps we should order another bottle."

"Yes, let's. Waiter!" Crowley flagged him down.

That evening, while Carnivale swirled by in a haze of masked faces and fine clothes, the two of them somewhat tipsily constructed an Arrangement that would benefit both parties. And, Aziraphale thought as he drank, would keep him in Crowley's orbit for the foreseeable future. By the time they left, they had ironed out the entire plan and put away enough wine to incapacitate five mortals. Luckily, they were only as drunk as they felt was necessary.

"You really think you'll be able to stomach it? My sort of work?" Crowley asked as he swayed in a doorway next to the restaurant. 

"If you think you can handle mine." Aziraphale played with his gold ring, smiling to himself, and let the wall hold him up. "I might even be able to convince myself this is one of my good deeds, when you think about it. Teaching a demon how to bestow blessings." 

"See, I like that. If I ever get caught, I could just say I'm persuading an angel into the demonic domain. How could they ever prove otherwise?" Crowley's grin was a gorgeous thing. Aziraphale wished he could touch it, but instead he stuck his hand into the fold of his over-robe and ran his thumb over the silk and lace balled up there.

They parted with a promise to meet in Amsterdam in two weeks' time. A sort of practice run; apparently there was an artist that needed tormenting. Aziraphale walked back to his rented room with a spring in his step. If this plan worked, they would both have so much more free time—time which could be spent enjoying each other's company instead of toiling fruitlessly. 

And that, at last, is how Aziraphale came to be standing before the mirror wearing naught but the brassiere[4] that Crowley had made. 

He liked the look of it, this new invention. He liked its softness, its creamy white color, the delicacy of the lace and the slip of the satin. He liked everything about it even though—or perhaps precisely because—he was not supposed to.

Wouldn't it be particularly natty, he thought, if it came with a matching set of drawers? Oh, but the scandal. Ladies weren't meant to wear such things over their nethers. Not that Aziraphale was a lady. He fingered the little twist of fabric between the cups. He had half a mind to take it to a seamstress tomorrow. See if such a thing would be possible.[5]

Aziraphale finished his appraisal of his new piece of underclothing and decided it was very good. A little private indulgence. The best kind: pretty and soft. He imagined all too easily Crowley's clever fingers working on the intricate web of lace. How sweet to have the demon's own handiwork cupping the soft hills and valleys of his body. 

The next best thing to Crowley's hands themselves. 

Before this next bit, we must explain something about angels. Much has been written about their sex (or lack thereof) which must be corrected. Angels—as well as demons, for that matter—are assigned a corporation when they need to assume physical form on Earth, and said corporation is a complete facsimile of the human body for reasons of both expediency and camouflage. An Effort with a capital E is required only to have said corporeal form react as a mortal body would in earthly situations. For example, an angel might only blink if he remembered he should to blend in with the humans, or if he was fond of blinking as an expression of confusion, but he didn't need to exert any Effort to have a pair of bloody eyes. They were part of the package.

This is all to say that Aziraphale had had a cock since he was first given corporeal form, and he didn't mind it. He could have switched it out if he cared to, of course, the same as any other part of his corporation.[6] If he made any Effort, it was purely to make the appendage function as a cock was meant to function. 

So when we say that Aziraphale made an Effort that night, we mean— Well, you know what we mean. He put in the work required to sport a stiffy.

It wasn't the first time he had enjoyed his body in this manner; one must find ways to pass the time, after all. Yet it was the first time that, upon taking himself in hand, Aziraphale had something—no, some _one_ —particular in mind. He couldn't help it. He stroked his cock and palmed the lace that covered his taut nipple—and he thought of Crowley.

"Oh!" Aziraphale startled at the force of the idea. Crowley's face flashed across his mind's eye as he imagined how his nimble hands might feel on Aziraphale's heated flesh. He loosened his grip on his cock and turned away from the mirror. "No, shouldn't do that, should I?"

It felt too good, so it had to be wrong.

For one thing, Heaven would surely look askance. But more importantly, Crowley would not appreciate being made the object of an angel's onanism. They were supposed to be partners in a mad scheme. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought wildly, they might even be friends. In neither case would it be appropriate to wank while thinking of Crowley. 

Aziraphale glanced back at the mirror. His body, soft in spots, hard in others, ached for a touch. Oh, why did he want so badly for that touch to be a demon's? 

The bed was too big for one. Aziraphale crawled into it anyway, fingertips plucking away at his nipples through the silky fabric while he jerked away at his cock and imagined it was Crowley stroking him off, hissing filth in his ear. _You like wearing that, angel? It's your color, angel. Come for me, angel, I want to make you come._

"Crowley," Aziraphale sobbed, "Crowley, I love—" And with a shudder, he spent into his hand. 

His breathing heaved in the dark of the room. Outside, the noise of Carnivale rose and fell. 

He stared at his sticky fingers and whispered to no one at all, "Oh, what have I done?" 

Aziraphale had begun a habit, that's what. Time marched onward, and so did Aziraphale's desire for one very maddening demon. The more time they spent together, the more the ache in his chest grew. At first, Aziraphale wondered if this had been Crowley's evil plot all along, but as the years went by, he got to know Crowley better than anybody, and he realized that was not the case.[7] It was Aziraphale's own heart that had betrayed him, loath as he was to admit it. 

The Arrangement required them to spend more time together, of course. He showed Crowley the finer points of miracleworking, which Crowley took to like a natural—which made sense, as he had been an angel once. Muscle memory, he told Aziraphale, that's all. 

Aziraphale was a bit embarrassed at how good he himself turned out to be at tempting. It was a piece of cake, nudging humans to do things they already really wanted to do. The angel feigned difficulty at first just to save face, and Crowley was patient and gentle in 'teaching' him, crowding up behind him, taking his wrist in his hand, guiding his fingers into the proper signs. In later days, Aziraphale would be taught to play snooker at a club for a certain kind of gentleman, and the arrangement of their bodies would remind him of Crowley's lessons. 

"Easy, now," Crowley whispered in his ear, aiming his hand at a hapless sheep-herder. "Don't overthink it."

Was it any wonder Aziraphale wanked through these centuries with furious tears in his eyes? 

As his ardor for Crowley grew, so too did his Collection. Aziraphale had not stopped with the one lacy undergarment from Austria via Venice; he picked up bits and pieces of feminine finery in his travels throughout the years. Stays of whalebone. Richly embroidered Chinese silks. Elaborate corsets. Delicate slips and stockings. Soft, sweet drawers, with crotches and without, depending on the fashions of the time. Heaps of petticoats and crinolines and knickers. Shimmering gold or pure white or pale blue—Aziraphale experimented to find the most flattering hues. And he loved them, his collection of frills. 

They allowed him to pretend in a way that pure imagination wouldn't. He would wear them in private and think of how lovely it would be to wear them for Crowley. He could forget, for a moment, how impossible that was. 

He held out hope, though. For as long as he could. 

Signpost: 1816. Bath. 

Aziraphale and Crowley strolled through a country lane on the edge of town. It was spring and the flowers in the fields were in bloom. The two of them were meeting ostensibly to decide who would go to Reykjavik for an execution and a miraculous healing, but lunch had turned into tea which had turned into the stroll and they were no closer to drawing straws. 

Crowley—decked out in his Regency finest, black as a raven—pointed his walking stick at two young lovers sitting on the edge of a little footbridge up ahead. 

"Think he might push her in?" he asked with budding interest.

"Oh, I don't think so." Aziraphale took Crowley's elbow to guide him down another path, one that would give the couple more privacy. "He's working up the courage to ask for her hand, I suspect."

"Pity." Crowley glanced over his shoulder at the bridge, his nose wrinkling. Though his dark glasses hid his eyes, Aziraphale knew the gleam they held. "It'd be funny, though, eh? A big fat sploosh?"

"My dear boy, do not tempt him," he admonished. "I shan't have you meddling with young love."

"Love?" Crowley scoffed. "Nonsense. He's, what, a stablehand of twenty? He doesn't know anything, least of all love."

Aziraphale flushed hotly. "I can assure you, I sense it very clearly. Can't you feel it?"

"The only thing I feel, angel, is a bit nauseated." He sneered once more at the bridge as they meandered along the burbling brook it spanned. Then, seeing Aziraphale's admonishing glare, he added, "Love's your business, not mine. Demon, remember?" He thumped the head of his walking stick against his thin chest. "That part's missing these days."

"What?" Aziraphale's face fell. "No, that's not— You must be able to." He'd thought, perhaps in time, Crowley would….

"Nope," Crowley said, popping the P. "Your boss saw to that." He poked the tip of his cane skyward.

Aziraphale stared up, bereft. It was too cruel, that She might have taken this away from Crowley. "But you—" He thought hard. "You know love. You love wine. And fine coats. And mischief, you love making mischief."[8]

"I _like_ _things_ well enough," Crowley replied, "but demons can't love."

"Oh." Without realizing it, he gripped Crowley's arm more tightly. Tears welled in his eyes. He mourned, not just for himself (although there was that), but for Crowley, who deserved to feel all the love in the world. "I'm sorry," he said, and it seemed insufficient.

"It's fine, angel." Crowley actually laughed, as if it was all a joke. "It's not the end of the world. I get by." He patted Aziraphale's hand where it clutched at his elbow.

Aziraphale let go of Crowley with all due haste. His hand curled itself into a fist at his side. He needed to get well away before he did something...untoward. "Oh, getting late, isn't it? Well," he said, "until next time, then." He tipped his hat and struck out across the fields back toward town.

"Hold on!" Crowley called after him. "Which one of us is going to Iceland?"

"I'll go," Aziraphale shouted without turning around. Then, quieter, to himself, "Perhaps the cold will help."

It didn't. Aziraphale spent an awful three weeks in Reykjavik shivering in his lonely bed, wearing a corset of ice-blue satin and weeping as he fisted his cock. 

When he at last returned to England, tasks of good and evil complete, he decided he needed distance from Crowley. Theirs was a one-sided love. That was a fact. Nothing could be done to change it, so Aziraphale would simply accept it. He would treat Crowley as a colleague and a fellow scholar, and it would be enough. The Arrangement was all that mattered. Through it, they would at least be together some of the time, in some way. 

And then they met in the park. And Crowley asked him for something. And Aziraphale found himself teetering on the brink of blurting out everything he'd been holding back all these years.

"Why not?" Crowley asked, clipped.

 _Because I love you too much_ , he wanted to say.

He stormed off instead. If he'd known that he wouldn't see Crowley for nearly a century, he might have done it differently. As it was, Crowley seemed to disappear from London. Aziraphale made delicate inquiries; he kept track of his movements. He knew he was safe. Now _that_ had to be enough, and it pained him. 

He still bought beautiful underthings that he saw in shop windows. He still wore them at night, alone in the little flat above the bookshop. He still touched himself through silks and lace and wondered if Crowley ever thought of him. He certainly thought of Crowley. 

Life goes on, he told himself. The world went to war. A couple of times, actually. Stockings were hard to come by, but Aziraphale managed as best he could.

See the signpost, there in the rubble? 1941. London.

You know all about what happened in that church. Here is what happened after.

Aziraphale sat gingerly on the sleek black leather of the Bentley's passenger seat. It was his first time riding in Crowley's car, or really any car. He hadn't yet come to terms with taxicabs. But Crowley seemed so eager to show off his (relatively) new possession, and after what he'd done, Aziraphale felt it only fair to indulge him. 

"She's the fastest thing this side of the fourth dimension, angel. All the latest bells and whistles, I made sure of it," he said as he caressed the steering wheel. "Isn't she the most beautiful thing you've ever laid eyes on?"

Aziraphale watched Crowley's profile and tried to keep his heart from thundering out of his chest. It had begun to leap and jolt the moment Crowley had handed him the bag containing his precious books, and it showed no signs of stopping. Aziraphale held the bag reverently in his lap and shut the car door, encasing the two of them in the shining dark of the Bentley.

"Yes," Aziraphale managed to say around a weak smile, "it's wonderful."

What he wouldn't give for Crowley to turn a tiny portion of that feeling toward him—but no, Aziraphale told himself sternly. Just because your tender emotions are flopping about like so many landed fish, it doesn't give you the right. Crowley was a demon, after all, and it wasn't fair to expect him to be anything else.

They drove through the wreck of London at dizzying speed, headlamps switched off in deference to the blackout. The only car on the road. The only creatures out and about on such an awful night. Aziraphale clutched his bag tighter and shut his eyes. The Bentley took a sharp turn and, after a moment's hesitation, Aziraphale's stomach followed. 

"Not to your liking, the motorcar?" Crowley laughed.

"Better than horses at least." Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked over at Crowley in the driver's seat. "Easier on the buttocks."

A look passed over Crowley then—difficult to tell what it meant with the dark glasses hiding his eyes, but Aziraphale wished he could be fool enough to call it fondness. "Certainly is," he said. 

The Bentley careened into Soho. Aziraphale realized they would be at the bookshop in a few short moments. He had so much to say. No time in which to say it.

"Crowley," he tried, "when last we spoke…"

"And here we are!" Crowley swung the car into a debris-free space that had miraculously appeared right outside the bookshop. The engine cut out, leaving them suspended in strange silence. Long, quick fingers tapped out a drumbeat on the steering wheel. "Off you go, I suppose."

Aziraphale couldn't hide his crestfallen expression, so he didn't try. "Won't you at least come in for a drink? It's been so long."

Crowley's mouth pulled into a grimace. "Best not, angel. Should go back to mine and—" He shifted, his feet restless on the pedals. A pained hiss left Crowley's lips.

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasped, staring into the dark wheel well of the driver's side. "My dear, you should have said. Your poor feet; have you burned them very badly?"

"Well, I did walk on consecrated ground." Said with more than a little snit in his voice.

"Yes, I know. Thank you for—"

"You don't need to thank me," Crowley snarled. "Just stop getting yourself nearly discorporated. All wrapped up in Nazi intrigue, what were you even doing?"

 _My job_ , Aziraphale nearly shot back. _The only thing I have left these days, no thanks to you._

He bit his lip. Looked down at the bag of books in his lap. "If we're to argue, I would rather we do it with a glass of something drinkable in hand," he said. 

"We're not arguing," Crowley argued. "We're—" He sighed, seeing Aziraphale's arch look. "Fine." He threw the gear shift into park. "One drink."

They climbed out of the Bentley, and Crowley practically wailed the moment his shoes touched the ground.

"Heaven Above," he cursed, hopping from foot to foot on the pavement. 

"My dear fellow!" Aziraphale hefted his heavy bag in the crook of one arm and hurried around the car to take hold of Crowley in the other. "Here, lean on me. There you are."

"It's nothing," Crowley said. "I can walk; stop fretting." Yet despite his protests, he did lean on Aziraphale, letting him take his slight weight, and together they hobbled into the bookshop.

The better part of a century, Aziraphale thought as he watched Crowley squint at their surroundings with serpentine interest. That was how long it had been. They hadn't met, hadn't spoken. All those years wasted. Aziraphale felt his arm shake where it held Crowley about his narrow waist. 

He fought to keep his voice steady. "It's gotten a bit cluttered, hasn't it?" He guided Crowley into the back room and eased him onto the old sofa. "A few more decades and I might run out of places to stack all these books of mine."

"You'll have room for those at least, right?" Crowley nodded to the bag still under Aziraphale's arm as he settled into the cushions.

He'd nearly forgotten them. The books themselves were less important to him than the care Crowley had taken in preserving them. "Yes, yes, of course." He stored the entire bag under a side table; they could be reshelved later. "Take off your shoes. Let me see what we're dealing with."

Crowley's face, elastic as always, bounced into a sort of frown. "Oh, come on, I don't think—"

Aziraphale knelt at Crowley's feet and began plucking at his shoelaces. "You're in pain. Let me help."

"Angel, get off the floor. This is stupid." Crowley's long fingers pushed at Aziraphale's shoulder, but Aziraphale did not budge.

"Shut up," said Aziraphale gently. He eased Crowley's right foot from its shoe, hissing in sympathy as a scorched sock was revealed, still smouldering in some places. "Poor thing," he murmured as he slowly, carefully, peeled the sock away from Crowley's burnt skin. "My word." 

"Looks worse than it is." Crowley's voice had dropped to a whisper too. 

Once Aziraphale managed to get both shoes and socks off, he saw that the soles of Crowley's feet were blackened and raw, glistening with shiny burns. "Keep them here, my dear," he said, holding them an inch off the ground. "I'll be right back."

He hurried to the tiny flat upstairs and came back carrying a metal washtub of cool, clean water. Only a little sloshed on the floorboards as he went, but he ignored it.

"What's that for?" Crowley asked.

"Oh, I thought we might have a tea party. What do you _think_ it's for?" Aziraphale snapped. He reclaimed his spot at Crowley's feet and positioned the basin beneath them. They needed more supplies, so he miracled them into existence, cloths and bandages in a neat pile on the floor. He shucked his coat and began rolling his sleeves to his elbows.

"You can't wash my feet." The demon shook his head. "Too on-the-nose."

"I don't care if it is," said Aziraphale, and guided Crowley by the ankles into the water. Crowley hissed with each millimeter, and Aziraphale murmured apologies. Eventually he was able to apply a soaked flannel to Crowley's instep with extreme gentleness. Black soot and red blood stained the water a horrid color, but Aziraphale only wrung out the cloth and plunged his hands back in to clean Crowley's wounds. 

He worked in silence, and Crowley sat in the same. There in the dark, hidden behind pitch black curtains with only a few flickering lamps for light, it could have been the Middle Ages all over again. Aziraphale handled Crowley's feet with infinite care and thought about all the things he wanted to say but couldn't. 

Because nothing had changed. Not really. He was only more in love with Crowley than ever before, if such a thing were possible. It felt like it was leaking out of him, pouring from his eyes and his mouth and his hands. Had it always felt this all-consuming? He wasn't sure. But Crowley would never be able to sense his love or return it, so it didn't matter.

"How did you know?" Aziraphale asked softly as he lifted one foot from the water and dried it with a clean cloth. "About the rendezvous, I mean." 

Crowley shrugged, still staring down at him. "You aren't the only one who can keep tabs, angel."

Aziraphale's head shot up, his eyes wide. "You…?"

Crowley waved a hand through the air. "Had to write something in my reports, didn't I?"

"Oh. Of course." Aziraphale bent his head again, concentrating on wrapping Crowley's feet in white linen. Drinks, he remembered. He should offer Crowley a drink. "I don't have many options in the liquor cabinet, I'm afraid." 

"I'll have whatever you're having," Crowley said. He eased his bandaged feet onto the floor. "The stronger, the better."

Aziraphale cleared away the wet flannels and the wash basin with a snap, then located a bottle of single malt that, while not the distillery's best showing, was better than nothing. 

When he finished filling their glasses and turned back with the drinks in hand, he took a moment to stare at the picture he found: Crowley, clad in his black suit, his shoes tossed aside on the rug, hat perched on the arm of the chesterfield, a sprawl of limbs on the cushions, face tilted up to the ceiling and eyes shut as if he was trying to will the pain away. Aziraphale nearly whimpered. It was a miracle to have him here, in this room. He'd missed the sight of him so much. His heart felt like someone had lit it on fire.

"Here." He nudged the glass into Crowley's hand, and Crowley roused enough to grasp it. "Drink up."

Aziraphale didn't dare sit beside him, of course. He pulled up his overstuffed wingback and sat across from him. They drank and talked about nothing important. How horrible the Nazis were. How horrible the whole world was. How horrible it was that bombs were falling. 

Crowley didn't talk about St James Park, and Aziraphale didn't try to bring it up again. Eventually Crowley drained the last dregs from his glass and said, "I should be going." Venice, repeated. Aziraphale had to keep him there somehow. He wasn't ready to say goodnight.

"Is there—?" He swallowed. "Do you have any little tasks that you'd, erm, like me to handle for you?" He nodded to Crowley's feet. "While you're recuperating, that is."

Crowley's face underwent a series of frowns before settling on a confused one. "What, like housework?"

"Temptations, damnations, curses…" Aziraphale smiled tentatively. "You can return the favor when you've recovered, if you'd like."

Crowley stared up at the ceiling again. Made one quiet noise of disbelief. "The Arrangement," he enunciated, like it was a foreign word. 

Aziraphale toyed with his empty glass. "Only if you'd like."

Crowley dragged a hand through his hair, shorter than the last time Aziraphale had seen it. He groped for his hat and put it on. "Let's leave it, angel," he said.[9]

"Ah. Quite." Aziraphale stared at the bottom of his glass. It would be goodnight forever, he thought. If he could avoid Crowley's face, perhaps it would be easier. "Well."

Crowley set his glass aside. "Lunch?" he asked.

Aziraphale looked up at that. "Pardon?"

"Tomorrow. We could get lunch." He reached for his shoes and held them by their laces, dangling from his long fingers. "If you're not busy being blown away by Nazi spies."

The angel blinked. He wasn't sure why Crowley would refuse his offer only to give him this one in return, but gift horses, etc. "That would be lovely," he whispered. 

"Right. Meet you at one? Have you been to the downstairs bar at the Ritz lately?"[10]

"I can't say I have," Aziraphale said in a daze. He hadn't had much reason to go out to lunch at all, not when he lacked a dining companion. He focused on Crowley's shoes, swaying in his hold. "Will you be all right by then? Your feet—" 

"Feeling much better. You're a miracle-worker, you know," Crowley said, and proved it by levering himself off the sofa to stand. "I'll see you there."

"Yes. One o'clock." Aziraphale stood, his eyes shining. 

"Right, then." Crowley tugged at the brim of his hat in farewell. "I'll let myself out. Night, angel." 

Aziraphale watched him pad on bandaged feet through the bookshop toward the front door. His heart was in his throat. It was going to tumble from his lips, he couldn't help it.

"Crowley?" he called.

Crowley stopped, one hand on the doorknob, his shoes in the other. He was a bright smudge of red in Aziraphale's otherwise perfectly beige life. "Yeah?"

Stay here tonight, Aziraphale wanted to say. Stay with me. I want you close, always. Please.

"Stay safe," he said instead, the barest whisper.

Crowley laughed. "As houses, angel." And with one last tip of his hat, he was gone.

Aziraphale slumped against the doorjamb. Crowley was back in his life. A miracle. A wondrous, joyous thing. 

So why was he crying? 

Aziraphale dabbed at his wet face with his handkerchief. Once he'd composed himself somewhat, he climbed the stairs to the little flat above the shop, undressing as he went. A trail of clothes led to the bed. Underneath was a small cedar chest. Aziraphale hesitated, then dragged it out and unlatched it.

He'd been saving this one. The fashion had fallen out of favor decades ago, but when he'd seen it in the window in Paris back then, he simply had to purchase it. It was a nightgown, white as his wings, delicate as mist. It was the kind of thing a lady of good breeding would have in her trousseau. It was meant for a wedding night. 

Aziraphale put it on.

It was cut low in the back, leaving his spine bare from shoulders to waist. The gossamer fabric revealed more than it concealed: every curve of his body, the dusky points of his nipples, the shape of his cock rising (with some Effort) against his belly. Aziraphale examined his reflection in his standing mirror and curled his clasped hands to his breast.

He had, in his lowest and most desperate dreams, intended to wear this for Crowley. Impossible. Foolish. Why did his traitor heart have to be like this? He loved a demon; perhaps the kindest, most gentle demon in all of Creation, but a demon nonetheless. He covered his face with his hands. 

Well, he thought as he cried fresh tears, if this was the nearest thing he would have to a wedding night, so be it. He threw himself onto the bed like a ship dashed upon the rocks. With frantic, shaking fingers he hitched the lacework hem over his hips to take himself in hand. 

He fucked his fist and whined Crowley's name. Tugged at his nipples and imagined it was Crowley's teeth. Closed his eyes and thought only of red hair and lean limbs and golden eyes watching him, a serpent preparing to swallow something whole. 

"Oh," Aziraphale moaned and spread his legs. He would be a wanton with Crowley, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He kept a little bottle of oil in his bedside table. Old habits. He fumbled with the stopper. 

Crowley wouldn't be content with touching him, sucking him. He would want everything Aziraphale had to offer. 

"Take me, take me," Aziraphale said into his pillow, his face pressed to the side as he breached himself with slick fingers. 

The billowing fabric of the nightgown slid smoothly along his skin as he worked into his body. Would Crowley go slow? Would he ravish Aziraphale like a cruel beast? The two Crowleys overlapped in Aziraphale's imagination, whispering in the dark in turns: _I want to hold you, angel. I'm going to fuck you until you come, angel._

"Please! Please!" Which was he begging for? It didn't matter; he would take whatever Crowley saw fit to give him. He would let him have whatever he wanted, he— 

Aziraphale spurted in a great arc, his feet scrabbling against the mattress, spine bowed. His body clamped down on his aching fingers. His spend marked his hot neck and the fabric covering his chest. Made a mess of the bunched silks and lace and chiffon. It seemed to last forever, this electric, guilt-laden release. 

When he was done, he lay breathing for a moment, then tore the ruined nightgown off with a horrid cry. The fabric ripped. He did not care. He stumbled naked to the little fireplace and shoved the thing in the grate. It burst into flame with a snap of his fingers. There wouldn't even be ashes in the morning, he thought darkly. 

"Oh…" All the anger went out of him at once, and Aziraphale slumped to his knees before the crackling fire. "Oh, Crowley. I'm sorry." 

Let's fade to black on that image of an angel wallowing in his grief and spattered with his own spend.

But we are not finished with Aziraphale.

Signpost: London! 2019! 

Despite everything, Crowley and Aziraphale had saved the planet, all of humanity, and themselves from a very nasty finale, and they were feeling rather chuffed about it. You will excuse them for celebrating excessively; they had been under a lot of stress prior to this, after all, and needed to blow off some proverbial steam.

This is all to say, in the back room of the newly restored bookshop, an angel and a demon were very, very drunk. Their meeting in the park had led to lunch, which had extended to dinner, which had further trickled into drinks, and in a few short hours it would be the next morning.

"What I'm trying to say," said Crowley, who was fighting the hissy little slur he sometimes slipped into when deep in his cups, "what I'm trying to— I mean, what I _am_ saying is—" 

"It was a good job." Aziraphale nodded at all the bookshelves. "Adam, he did a very fine job indeed."

"Right, yes! The only things." Crowley drained his glass and smacked his lips. "What was…? Right, like I was saying, the only things out of place," he pointed a wavering finger at some leather bound novels, "was that, and that's not so bad!"

"Not bad at all," Aziraphale said, his voice dropping into a deeper register as he fought a belch. "Think I might keep them."

"Souvenir." Crowley's sprawl across the sofa lengthened into something downright indecent. Aziraphale was careful, even as drunk as he was, to avert his eyes from the stretch of those tight black jeans. 

The adventure books aimed at scrappy young boys were not the only thing out of place in the bookshop, however. To be clear, Adam Young could not be blamed. No easy task, rearranging atoms and molecules. It wasn't his fault that some molecules were more slippery than others. 

This is all to say that, when Crowley frowned and reached beneath the sofa cushion in an attempt to ascertain what was making a lump in the familiar landscape, he fished out a pair of frilly pale pink knickers that rightfully belonged in the chest upstairs with the rest of Aziraphale's Collection.

Aziraphale, however, was busy trying to shake the last few drops from his wineglass into his mouth and did not notice. He didn't look up until Crowley had a moment to examine them and, realizing what they were, let out a loud yelp. 

"Hm? Oh!" Aziraphale squinted at the knickers blearily. "How did those get there?" He was not as bothered by their appearance as you might think. Victory—and the subsequent champagne—tends to make one mellow.

Crowley, mouth hanging open, held the unmentionables aloft like a flag. "Familiar, are they, angel?"

"I should say so," he said, brave and prim (and drunk). "They're mine."

"Yours?" Crowley shot him a look over the rims of his dark glasses that conveyed how unbelievable he found this statement. "Come on, angel. Who's your lady friend—? Some kind of friend, some knickers-wearing friend." He stuck a long finger through the leg hole of the panties and twirled them casually. 

Aziraphale laughed and refilled their glasses. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he said with infinite fondness. He was feeling very charitable about the whole thing. Why not own up to his underclothes? The world was still here, and so was Crowley, and nothing else mattered.

"Look." Crowley leaned forward. "We're both free agents these days. In every sense of the word, I suppose. You can tell me if you have something good going on."

Aziraphale flushed a riotous shade of red. "But I am telling you! They are mine."

"Quit pulling my leg." Crowley held the panties now by their little lacy waistband, hung like a banner between his fingertips. "Whose are they, really? No need for shame, now that Heaven's not breathing down your neck."

"I know that! Which is why I am telling you— Oh, give me those!" Aziraphale snatched the undergarments out of Crowley's grasp and shook them in his fist. "You do not have a monopoly on dabbling in feminine garb, Crowley! I am allowed my indulgences just as you are! So what if I put on fine and pretty things and then see to myself? No one else is seeing to me!"

Crowley stared. Aziraphale realized that perhaps he had said too much. They both drank to cover the awkward silence.

"No one?" Crowley asked after a moment. 

Aziraphale blew out a sigh. "Of course not." He snorted into his glass. "'Lady friend.' Listen to yourself."

"Sorry," Crowley said in a moment of uncharacteristic remorse. "I just thought—"

"Oh, leave it." Aziraphale dredged up a little smile. "It's quite all right."

And it was all right. Everything was just fine. God was in Her—whatever—and all was right in the world. His smile widened. He folded the knickers in a neat parcel atop his knee and placed them inside his suit coat. 

"So. Things?" Crowley croaked. 

Aziraphale frowned. "What?"

"You said _things_. Plural." Crowley gestured to the suit coat where the knickers had disappeared. "As in, more than that one?"

"Oh, _yes_ ," Aziraphale enthused. "Would you like to see?"

"See?" Crowley squawked. 

It was a grand idea, actually. Aziraphale drained his glass. "Upstairs," he clarified. "That's where I keep my things. Plural." He maneuvered himself out of his customary armchair and wobbled toward the spiral staircase. "Come on, I insist. It's mostly your fault, actually, so it's only fitting you take a look."

"My fault?" Crowley trickled from the sofa to follow. "How is this my fault?"

Aziraphale paused, leaning against the curving banister to stare down at Crowley. His smile gentled. "Your invention. The, erm—" He mimed across the expanse of his chest. "It caught on after all, just as I told you it would."

"Sure, but that was ages ago." Crowley grasped at the banister and spiraled his way upward. His brow furrowed. "Unless— Are you telling me—?"

Aziraphale's eyes twinkled. He couldn't help it. "Yes, dear boy," he said, and tugged at Crowley's sleeve as he led the way. "I've been at this for some time."

They arrived in the little flat above the bookshop, a place Crowley had never been before. He peered around at all the old-fashioned furnishings, more suited to a Victorian parlor than anything. 

"I barely use it," Aziraphale said, suddenly self-conscious. He went to the window and closed the drapes for something to do. The room was really only a venue for his onanistic forays, which, he now realized, seemed quite tawdry. "Just for show, really. Insurance adjusters," he lied, "always poking around, wondering about...well." He stood in the middle of the room and fiddled with his ring. "One must keep up appearances." That, at least, was true.

Crowley nodded, his mouth hanging open a bit as he looked about. "So, this is where your, ah—" 

"Yes, here we are." Aziraphale knelt and preoccupied himself with dragging out the heavy chest. "Oh, I do hope they've all managed to find their way back where they belong. Wouldn't do, would it, to have my lingerie scattered throughout the city." He propped open the lid and began to pull out pieces, one after the other. Stays and corsets threadbare with age, silks faded with time, but still beautiful in their own way. Teddies and merrywidows and cinchers and nighties, newer things with the sturdiness of machine-made lace, brighter dyes, the thinnest wisps of softness. "Wonderful! All accounted for, it looks like. Except for—" He patted his suit coat. "Anyway, what do you think?" 

He looked up at Crowley from his spot knelt among a veritable cloud of delicate underthings, and hoped the answer was at least a polite one.

"I—" Crowley's sunglasses afforded his expressions some protection, but even they could not hide how high his eyebrows had climbed. "I would never've guessed, angel. You've been squirreling these away? All these years?" He bent to touch the gauzy strap of one rather bold brassiere that was missing the middle bits of its cups.

"Off and on." Aziraphale's momentary caution was thrown to the wind, and he cheerfully lifted a lemon yellow slip trimmed in white lace from the pile to hold it up to the light. "As I said, it's nice."

Crowley's brain seemed to still be pulling into the station. He shook his head. "Hard to imagine. You. In these."

Aziraphale lowered the slip to puddle in his lap. "Is it?" 

"Well." Crowley glanced off toward a corner and scratched the back of his head. "Not really sure I should try. Imagining." 

"Whyever not?" Aziraphale frowned, then brightened. "I know! Let me try one on for you."

Crowley's brain derailed entirely. Aziraphale could tell because his mouth opened and closed but no words were being produced. It gave him a sort of pride to know he'd bested the demon in such a way. 

"Yes, that's just the thing. Here, now, which one?" He rummaged through his Collection with a thoughtful hum. "Something more modern, I think. Ah, perfect." 

He held up a white chemise of delicate mesh, slashed open in the back but cut high in the front with a silken collar that ringed the neck. Some rather sweet floral embroidery decorated the flowing hem. It came with a matching set of panties with a heart-shaped keyhole on the seat. Demure without being dowdy. Daring without being vulgar. 

"Isn't it lovely?" Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, who was still gaping like a frog. It occurred to him then that perhaps he had gone too far. He didn't want to scare away the poor thing, not when they had all the time in the world to spend together. Had he lost his wits, waving his lingerie about like some floozy?

In the room below them, the wine bottles refilled. Aziraphale discreetly swallowed down the foul taste in his mouth that came with sobering up; best not to let Crowley know he was no longer celebrating. 

He slowly tucked the pretty chemise set back into the chest. "Oh, listen to me," he murmured. "You're not interested in seeing me model these bits and bobs. I'm being silly. Why don't we go back downstairs and—?"

"Maybe you should," Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale looked up from the suspenders and stockings he was folding. "Pardon?"

"Maybe you should wear it." He shoved his fingertips into his trousers' tiny pockets and made an abbreviated shrug. "Still not convinced. Could be putting me on, all this frilly stuff being yours."

Aziraphale laughed. "My dear, I am not 'putting you on!'" He made the marks in the air with his fingertips.

"So...put _that_ on," Crowley said, pointing to the chest. "Come on. Let's have it." He crossed his arms and made a show of leaning against a dressing table, though his hip glanced off it on the first try. 

Aziraphale bit his lip. He knew this could be the only time his Collection ever received a smidgen of attention from its intended audience. It would be a shame to miss out on that chance. Right, he thought firmly. If Crowley wanted to muck about, he would indulge him. 

"If you insist," he said. Twirled his finger in a circle. "Could you, ah, turn around?"

"Right. 'Course." Crowley whirled to face the wall, still a picture of insouciance. Aziraphale waited to make sure he wasn't going to peek, then stood to begin unbuttoning his waistcoat.

He liked to dress and undress the human way, with real clothing of earthly origin. Miracling togs was fine in a pinch, but nothing beat the feel of actual fabric sliding against his skin. Aziraphale thought that perhaps his interest in lingerie was only natural, considering the clothes available to him as a man-shaped creature in this part of the world no longer consisted of fine hosiery. 

He retrieved the chemise set from the chest and slipped into it, putting the rest of the pieces away for safekeeping. Checking himself in the mirror, he gave himself a small smile.

This time, the lingerie fit Aziraphale very well indeed. 

He tugged a wrinkle out of the chemise as he turned to examine every angle. It had been a more recent purchase from the early naughts, and Aziraphale thought it very becoming on his plump figure. The gauzy fabric showed every curve. His wide hips, the roll of his stomach, his taut nipples, all on display. The panties were a treat, revealing a little flash of skin in the back, a hint of his crack. His cock would have been hard had he made an Effort, but he didn't wish to be rude in front of Crowley, and so it just nestled sweetly against the silky gusset. No stockings or suspenders, he decided; there was a simple elegance to being bare-legged and barefoot. He turned back to see Crowley with his nose an inch from the wall as if studying the wallpaper very closely.

He cleared his throat. "You can look now."

The trick, Aziraphale told himself, was to not shrink from Crowley's gaze. He was proud of his pretty things, and he was proud of this body he'd inhabited for so long, and he liked the way he looked right now especially, and whatever joke or throwaway comment Crowley might make would not change that. He stood tall as Crowley turned to stare at him.

And stare he did. In quite a lot of silence. For a very long time.

Even someone with the self-confidence of Aziraphale would worry. "Crowley? Are you all right?"

Crowley shook himself like a wet dog and found his tongue. "Sorry, yeah."

"So?" Aziraphale lifted the embroidered hem of the chemise in a sort of curtsy. "What do you think?"

Crowley's head bobbed up and down as he swept his eyes from tip to toe. "Er," he said. "I mean—" And then he made a noise that contained no discernible vowels the likes of which cannot be replicated by the human voice.[11]

Aziraphale blinked in concern.

Crowley's mouth opened, then shut with a click, then opened again to spit out, "Obviously you're gorgeous."

Aziraphale tucked his chin to his chest and eyed Crowley with something like admonishment. "Obviously," he said, dry as old toast. He turned to give Crowley a view of the back. 

Another helpless noise left Crowley. Aziraphale, delighted, watched in the mirror as the demon pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his sunglasses up his forehead. "You're seriously telling me," he said, "that you dress up like this for...no one? No one gets to see you like this?"

"Well." Now Aziraphale was feeling a bit out of sorts. Crowley was someone, but he was afraid to point that out. He toyed with the ruffled hem of his chemise. "It's not as if I have any—what would I even call them? Suitors?" He turned back to face his demon. "So yes. This is just for me, I suppose."

"Seems a waste," Crowley said.

The angel's face fell. 

"No, not—!" Crowley waved his hands through the air. "I just can't believe— You go through all this trouble and you have to, erm, take care of yourself?"

Aziraphale lifted one bare shoulder. "No one's offered to do it for me," he said simply. He felt they were walking along a knife edge. There was an electric sizzle to the air in the room, as if all the rearranged atoms and molecules were straining to hear what might be said next.

After a moment, Crowley spoke. "What if I offered?"

The room was not very large, but in that moment, Aziraphale felt the space between them as a huge gulf. Crowley, slouched over by the wall. Himself, standing by the mirror. Perhaps four strides at most separating them. 

Aziraphale took two. "Oh, that would be—" His face was flushed to burning. "Are you? Offering?"

Crowley took the remainder of the distance in one step. Longer legs and all. He rested his thin hands on Aziraphale's soft hips. Just the tips of his fingers at first, and when that seemed to go fine, his palms followed. He licked his bloodless lips.

"I mean, why not?" he said with a shrug. "Just getting off, isn't it?"

Aziraphale fought to keep the smile on his face. "Yes, why not." He smiled wider for emphasis. "It'll be a lark."

Crowley nodded, sunglasses glinting in the dim light. "A bit of fun."

"It won't mean anything. Just two—" Aziraphale groped for the proper word to describe them. "Two old friends. Indulging."

"Exactly." Crowley grinned back at him. Happy as a clam. 

It wasn't the fantasy Aziraphale had harbored for all his centuries of self-gratification. It wasn't romantic or loving or even passionate, but it was better than he could expect. Crowley might only be humoring him, or pitying him, but that wasn't so bad, was it? At least it meant he cared. That was fairly close to love. For a demon. 

"Shall we?" Aziraphale glanced over at the bed. His own hands crept up to Crowley's shoulders. They were so thin through his jacket, like sharp points. 

Crowley agreed that moving to the bed seemed the natural next step. He folded the duvet back and guided Aziraphale to lay amid the pristine sheets and jumble of pillows. Aziraphale arranged himself just so, thinking carefully on how to show himself to the greatest effect. He watched as Crowley stood at the bedside and took it all in with no real reaction, no comment. His heart plummeted another inch in his chest; to Crowley, this wouldn't be at all noteworthy an evening, he supposed. 

"So you, erm—" Crowley made some vague gesture to Aziraphale's panties. "You're that-shaped. Kind of expected something else, not sure why."

"Oh." Aziraphale cupped a hand over his silk-covered cock. He considered offering to swap it out if Crowley preferred, but he didn't want to seem too eager. "How funny. And you?" He gave Crowley's jeans a meaningful glance. 

"Hold on." Crowley closed his eyes and swallowed in a way that likely meant he was making an Effort in that arena. When he undid his fly and pulled out his hard prick, he gave Aziraphale a small smile. "Guess we match, angel."

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile in return. With a little exertion of Will, his own cock hardened. His hand fell away. "I suppose we do," he said, fighting a blush. He needed to remain businesslike about the whole thing. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be taken now."

"Oh. Sure," Crowley said, and snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale gasped as an instant feeling of slickness and stretch invaded his body. He couldn't stop the miffed glare he shot at Crowley. "What on Earth was _that_?" 

"I, er." Crowley dropped his hand. "Needed to get you ready, didn't I?"

Aziraphale felt adrift. He couldn't explain that he had been looking forward to a slow exploration of Crowley's fingers, the sweet torture of being opened to receive his cock. He wanted that closeness. He wanted that care. 

But he was in no position to demand intimacy. This was to be quick and emotionless, nothing more. Aziraphale swallowed and spread his legs. 

"Best get to it, then," he said, not meeting Crowley's eyes. 

Crowley didn't even undress, just crawled between Aziraphale's thighs with his prick in hand. "Shall I—?" He hooked a finger into the gusset of the panties and pulled them aside.

Aziraphale could feel whatever demonic oil Crowley had miracled up leaking from his little hole. He fought the urge to cover himself. "Yes, don't bother taking them off," he said. If Crowley wasn't going to be naked, Aziraphale wouldn't either.

Despite everything, Aziraphale still felt the urge to touch Crowley, to try to eke some tenderness from this night. He curled his hands uselessly against his chest instead. Beneath them, his heart pounded. 

Crowley nudged the spongy head of his cock between Aziraphale's legs. "Tell me if—" he said. "If anything—"

"Go on, I'll be fine," Aziraphale said, though he was anything but. 

Crowley looked back down at where his cock was pressing into Aziraphale's entrance, all his concentration on this mechanical act, and Aziraphale couldn't watch any longer. He shut his eyes and tried to enjoy what should have been the wondrous feeling of Crowley breaching him. 

There was no physical pain—the miraculous preparation had seen to that—and he could feel Crowley's hand brushing the inside of his thigh where he was still holding the panties out of the way. He could hear Crowley's breathing hitch a little, get heavier and faster. These were all nice things. 

Everything else was breaking Aziraphale's heart in pieces. Yet he couldn't back down now, not when Crowley was finally, finally with him, inside him. It was more than he could hope for, wasn't it?

Inch by inch, Crowley pressed forward until he was fully seated. Aziraphale felt the tickle of his pubic hair just below his drawn-up bollocks, but he didn't dare open his eyes. The sight would undo him, he was certain of it.

"You all right?" Crowley asked in a voice that sounded like it'd run a triathlon. 

Aziraphale nodded. "Mmm." 

"I'm going to move now."

"Lovely."

There was a bit of silence, then, "Right." And Crowley withdrew, then slid back in. 

Aziraphale's fingers twitched. Oh, how he wished he could grab at Crowley's hair, his shoulders, his skinny waist, any part of him he could. 

But Crowley wasn't his to hold. 

You cannot lie here like a dead fish all night, Aziraphale told himself sternly. Crowley might grow bored. He hitched his hips up to meet Crowley's precise thrusts, biting his lip to contain a whimper. 

All at once, Crowley's cock slid free from his body, leaving him empty and damp. 

"I can't do this," Crowley muttered. 

"What?" Aziraphale opened his eyes to find Crowley doing up his zip with shaking hands. 

"Sorry—" He was crawling backwards off the bed now, gaining his feet. "I'm sorry. I have to leave."

"No, please don't go." He reached down to quickly tug his underthings back into order, rolling off the bed to follow. Crowley was nearly at the door. "What's the matter? Weren't you enjoying it?" 

Crowley gave a bark of bitter laughter, the dark circles of his sunglasses pointing everywhere in the room but Aziraphale. "You're drunk. We shouldn't—"

"I'm not," Aziraphale confessed with a grimace. "But you are. Oh dear, is that why…? You've had too much wine, I see now. That's all right." He forced a smile onto his face. "Stay awhile and we can try again later. Or—"

"I've been sober since we came upstairs," Crowley said.

Aziraphale went cold all over. He felt very stupid all of a sudden, standing there in his frilly lingerie, being told by a completely cognizant demon that sleeping with him was a real chore.

He fidgeted with the hem of his chemise again, not wanting to look into Crowley's hidden eyes. He cleared his throat. He could salvage this; he had to. An earthly eternity without Crowley's friendship was not worth the trouble. 

"Well. Nevermind then," he said softly. He would tell Crowley to forget this madness; no harm done; lunch tomorrow? As if nothing had changed. Because it hadn't. He looked up at last to say exactly that.

He stopped, mouth open. 

No, it couldn't be. Crowley was wiping a hand across his face. His cheeks were wet.

"My dear boy!" He was at Crowley's side in an instant. "What's wrong?"

Crowley twisted his head away to hide the evidence, but it was too late. "Nothing, don't—"

Aziraphale's hands were already reaching for him, delicately grasping the temples of his sunglasses. He removed them to reveal golden slitted eyes, pink with tears. 

"Oh." Aziraphale's heart dropped. "Was it really that awful?" 

Another tear fell from Crowley's eye. He dashed it away with the cuff of his jacket. "You wouldn't even look at me," he said in a whisper. "It was like I wasn't even there."

Confusion flooded Aziraphale like he was a troubled basement. "I'm sorry, I— You wanted me to look at you? But why?"

Crowley looked away. "That was how I always imagined it." His damp eyes slid shut, like he was bracing for a blow.

The confusion rose to Aziraphale's ground level. "You've...imagined?"

Crowley deflated like a very thin, morose balloon. "I can't pretend with you, angel. It can't be some lark, not for me. I love you too much."

Aziraphale stood frozen, Crowley's glasses still in his hands, as these words washed over him. Individually he understood their meaning, but in context, altogether— The thing was a mystery.

"But demons can't love," he said. 

Crowley shrugged. 

"You told me so," Aziraphale kept on, more agitated now. "You were very clear. You said it was impossible."

"I thought it was, at the time," Crowley sighed. He rubbed at his eyes. "Obviously I was mistaken." 

"But— I don't understand. When did you—?" 

"That night you washed my feet." Crowley stared at said feet as he spoke. "I knew then that I was—falling. But it didn't matter. You couldn't sense it, this love of mine, or if you did, you never mentioned it." Aziraphale watched his throat bob as he swallowed. "I reckoned it wasn't...good enough, strong enough, whatever, so—" He waved a hand through the air. "Forget it."

Aziraphale thought hard. He found it very difficult with his mind in such a whirl, but he did try. If Crowley was being honest, if he really did love Aziraphale, wouldn't Aziraphale have been able to sense it? 

Unless….

"Oh!" Aziraphale nearly dropped the sunglasses. "Oh, Crowley, don't you see? I never sensed your love because—" He folded up the glasses and held them to his heart. "It got all muddled up with mine. Every time I saw you, I always felt—! But I thought that was just the effect you had on me. And that night, it was so, so—" How could he even explain how it felt? Like he could turn to water, it was so overwhelming.

Crowley eyed him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Aziraphale smiled, "I love you too."

Crowley snorted. It was not the response Aziraphale had been hoping for. "No you don't."

Aziraphale dropped his hands at his sides in fists. "I certainly do! I've loved you for a very long time."

"No, angel, you— Love is your _thing_. You love the whole world and everyone in it. You love the waiter when he comes with your dinner. I'm talking about something else." Crowley plucked his glasses out of Aziraphale's grasp and put them back on. "It's fine. Let's not get into it."

Aziraphale plucked the glasses right off Crowley's nose again. Those wide, bare yellow eyes stared back at him, still rimmed in red.

"We are talking about the exact same thing! Will you stop being so stubborn and miserable and, and, and—!" Aziraphale ran out of words, and so lent forward and pressed his lips to Crowley's instead.

It was a little strange to have a first kiss after what they'd already done, but to Aziraphale's mind, they were both a little strange anyway, so that was all right. He kissed with his entire body, seeking the thin line of Crowley, pressing into him, his hands cupping his shocked face. The glasses fell on the ground and were stepped on by Crowley's booted foot when he stumbled, but there were plenty of spares in the Bentley's glove compartment, so no one was upset. 

Crowley's hands fell to Aziraphale's hips and, after only a moment of hesitation, gripped him and pulled him closer. Aziraphale made a noise that we will not try to repeat here. Crowley breathed against his jaw. 

"You really feel the way I do?" he asked in wonder.

"We match," Aziraphale said, curling against Crowley's chest. "You said so yourself."

Now that he knew to look for it, he could feel Crowley's love blooming all around him like the fields of tulips they'd seen outside of Amsterdam. It trickled into him like a cool stream they'd walked beside, filled him up with warm comfort like sharing a bottle of good wine.

Tears of joy sprang to Aziraphale's eyes. "Oh, Crowley," he whispered into the skin of his throat, "make love to me."

Crowley seemed unable to form words, for he made another of his strange noises and dipped his head to kiss Aziraphale again, and again. 

They clung to each other as they fell back into bed, this time their hands roaming freely. Aziraphale tore at the buttons of Crowley's waistcoat and shirt, pushing away each black layer. Crowley kicked his boots off the edge of the mattress but then became preoccupied with burying his face in Aziraphale's lace-covered belly, kissing him through the gauzy fabric, touching him reverently along his hips and thighs. 

"There's so much of you," he murmured. "It's amazing."

Aziraphale smiled at this naked admiration, his fingers combing through Crowley's fiery hair as he explored. "I'm quite partial to my figure, too."

"Ample." Crowley nuzzled against the silky panties where Aziraphale's cock had redoubled its Effort. "That's the word. I meant what I said; you're gorgeous like this." He nosed along the white fabric, lipping at the outline of Aziraphale's cockhead. "Wearing your pretty things." 

"They were for you," Aziraphale blurted out. A blush rose to his cheeks but he fought it back. 

Crowley's head popped up as he stared at him in interest. "What?"

"When I wore them and—touched myself," Aziraphale said, "I was always thinking of you." He rearranged the folds of the chemise along his belly. "Ever since Venice, I haven't stopped thinking of you. Do you remember how you knitted that lace under-bodice?"

Crowley lowered his cheek to rest atop Aziraphale's hip, his eyes wide and glazed. "Really?" he said. "You—? All this time?"

"Well." Aziraphale frowned. "Eventually it fell apart, that first one. I wore it out, I'm afraid." 

"No, I mean— That's how long you've been in love with me?" Crowley touched his hand where it lay on the sheets. Their fingers tangled together. "Angel, these past few decades were unbearable for me. Wanting you, trying to keep it hidden from you. But you carried that for…"

"Centuries." Aziraphale smiled down at him. "Not that it's a competition."

Crowley laughed, kissed Aziraphale through his knickers again, rolled him over onto his stomach. "Even so, feels like you deserve some kind of reward," he said as he at last shucked off his jeans. No underwear to speak of, ironically.[12]

Aziraphale raised himself on his elbows and looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, but didn't you want me to look at you while we—?" 

Crowley pointed ahead. "Shouldn't be a problem."

Aziraphale turned back to find that he had been positioned to face his full-length mirror, and that he could watch everything Crowley would be doing to him. "My dear, you're so clever. Mmm, yes!" 

The reason for this outburst was Crowley's fingers, which were opening up Aziraphale as he wanted: slowly, carefully, the human way. Seeking entrance, shoving aside the soaked gusset. Crowley draped over his back, bare skin hot against Aziraphale's where the chemise's cutaway allowed it. He said things in Aziraphale's ear which, to any other listener, would sound crass or even laughable, but to Aziraphale they were like music. (We won't repeat them.)

"Yes, please," Aziraphale panted. "Hurry, I can't wait any longer."

Crowley replaced his fingers with his cock, a frantic little fumble which made Aziraphale's heart flutter, and at last they were joined the way they should have been before—as they always should be, Aziraphale thought. His arms gave out, and he collapsed more or less on his face with his arse still high in the air. He fought to lift his head so he could behold Crowley in the mirror, fucking him from behind. Oh, what a picture he made as he pumped away. His fiery hair was a wild tangle, damp with sweat at his temples, his red mouth open in a silent cry, bright eyes catching Aziraphale's in the reflection.

"Good?" he asked.

"Wonderful, my love," Aziraphale said. "Hold still a moment. Do not move a muscle."

Crowley obeyed, his hands clamped to Aziraphale's hips, his back ramrod straight. His cock twitched inside him but did not otherwise budge. Aziraphale rocked forward, groaning at the delicious slide of Crowley's prick within him, then rocked back. The full cheeks of his arse slapped loudly against Crowley's belly.

"Angel!" Crowley cried out. "Fuck, do that again."

Aziraphale did. Over and over, he fucked himself on Crowley's cock. Crowley grabbed at Aziraphale's panties, using the fistful of fabric as a handhold to pull Aziraphale back onto his prick. Aziraphale's cock pulsed inside the tight confines of silk and lace. The obscene sounds of their skin filled the room, accented with their whimpers and moans. Crowley's hips snapped forward, unable to keep still for very long.

"I have. So many. Beautiful. Little things. To wear for you," Aziraphale said between thrusts. "Would you mind? Me showing off all my finery?"

"Depends." Crowley's voice had turned into a gravelly growl. "Would you mind if I ripped them apart to get you naked?" He yanked the fistful of knickers he still held tighter for emphasis. "These are on thin ice as it is, angel."

Aziraphale gasped, twisting his neck to shoot Crowley a teasing look. "Naughty demon! I shan't have you ruining my Collection."

Crowley crowded over Aziraphale's back, the hand not occupied with his panties slipping from his hip to rub at his trapped cock. Aziraphale shook and whined at the touch.

"I think you're going to ruin these before I get the chance," he whispered in Aziraphale's ear. "Or will you make puppy dog eyes at me until I get all the stains out? I'll just purse my lips," Crowley drew said lips, warm and wet, along Aziraphale's neck, "and blow."

A stream of hot breath tickled the back of Aziraphale's ear, and he laughed. He reached beneath himself and cupped his hand over Crowley's where it held his prick. 

"I love you," he sighed, "so very much."

"Because I'll take care of the stains?"

"Because you'll take care of _me_ ," Aziraphale said with unending confidence. He met Crowley's softening gaze in the mirror. "Turn me over, my dear?" As lovely as their current position was, he wanted to touch more of Crowley.

Crowley slipped free of his body just long enough to flip him onto his back, then held Aziraphale's knees nearly to his heaving chest before plunging back in. He saw to Aziraphale so thoroughly and forcefully that the ribbon at the back of Aziraphale's neck—the one which held his chemise's neckline about his throat—unknotted and came loose. Crowley, seeing this, gave an animal grunt and pulled the fabric down to bare one of Aziraphale's nipples, which became the center of his attention. He licked and bit at it while Aziraphale howled, dug his fingers into red hair, arched up into Crowley's mouth.

"Oh yes," he panted, "oh, my dear, you undo me. Please—"

Aziraphale wasn't even sure what he was asking for, but Crowley knew him better than anyone in the universe and could make a fairly educated guess. He drew back, took hold of Aziraphale's thick wrists, and pinned them to the mattress above his head.[13]

"You gorgeous thing," he said, and thrust into Aziraphale faster.

Aziraphale—there was no other word for it—mewled. He knew he must look a sight: chemise rumpled, one breast exposed, knickers bulging with his desperate cock, held down and laid out for Crowley like a sacrifice. He stared up at Crowley, his eyes shining with everything he felt for this demon of his. 

Crowley stared back at him, wild-haired and wet-eyed.

"Angel, I—" He bit down on a gasp, like he was running out of air. "Holy—damned— _Someone_! I can feel it, fucking Hell."

"Feel what?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley pressed deep into him. Gathered his wrists in one hand and moved the other to Aziraphale's cock, peeling the panties down to stroke it. "Your love. I can sense your love," he whispered. "It's like you're inside me."

The mere suggestion made Aziraphale shiver. "Crowley, you're going to make me—!"

Crowley's hand sped up on Aziraphale's cock, matching the hard thrusts of his hips. He pressed his face into the soft chemise half-covering Aziraphale's chest and groaned. "Right behind you, angel."

Pinned beneath Crowley's lanky weight, his wrists still clasped above his head, Crowley's love surrounding him like fine silk, Aziraphale had no choice but to close his eyes and let his crisis come over him. He came in great splashes all over Crowley's hand, the front of his chemise, Crowley's belly, his poor, abused knickers. He felt Crowley following just as he'd promised, filling him up inside, hot and sticky.

"On me, please, on me too," Aziraphale begged, and Crowley reached down to pull his jerking cock from Aziraphale's hole just in time to spurt more fluid onto the mess of his bunched panties. 

They didn't need to breathe air, but for the sake of the moment, they both made the Effort. They panted in the quiet of the room, looking at each other in a daze, until Crowley lowered his head the inch he needed to kiss Aziraphale. It was a shaky, messy kiss, more of a smear of wet lips then anything, but Aziraphale loved it very much. He gently shook his wrists free from Crowley's grasp and wrapped his arms 'round his demon, sealing them together where they were covered in spend.

"My love, you were wonderful," Aziraphale said after their lazy kisses slid to an end.

"Yeah?" Crowley murmured into his neck. He sounded like he was on the verge of sleep, the poor dear. Must be exhausted. 

Aziraphale petted a hand through his hair. "Better than I ever imagined."

"Mmm, yeah." Crowley nuzzled into his shoulder, pillowing himself there shamelessly. "'m so lucky." He slipped a thin hand under the hem of the chemise and rested it against Aziraphale's soft stomach. "Love you."

"I know," Aziraphale said. "I love you, too." He dropped a kiss to the top of Crowley's head. Considered fetching the old washbasin and scrubbing them clean. Felt Crowley's breathing even out in sleep against his chest, and thought better of it. 

Aziraphale lay there with Crowley atop him, his lingerie a wreck, the bed a mess, and considered—

Perhaps when they finally rose, they could get some lunch. Aziraphale had a sudden craving for risotto. 

* * *

1 Said sweets would be, in five centuries' time, crafted into a sort of torture inflicted upon the participants of a televised baking show, but for the moment the pastries were still innocent of any wrongdoing. [return to text]

2 Aziraphale had paid for the oysters, this was true. What was also true was that Crowley had only eaten two of those oysters, so really it was only fair. Neither of them mentioned this fact. [return to text]

3 He had grown it long again for the caper in Austria, which had required him to pose as a lady-in-waiting. Crowley related this fact with not a shred of chagrin, of course. Aziraphale noticed Crowley often crossed the boundary between man-shaped and woman-shaped in a way that was rather wonderful. [return to text]

4 Though it would be several centuries before it was called that. [return to text]

5 It would be possible, of course, for a modest fee. Thus did the angel Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Keeper of the Flaming Sword, Principality of Heaven, inflict upon the world the matching bra and panty set, forever plunging into despair all of humanity. Well, the percentage of humanity who cared about matching bras to pants, anyway. [return to text]

6 He had done so, in fact, when it came to his eye color. Originally his corporation had been issued with brown eyes. Aziraphale, seeing his reflection in a flowing stream in Eden for the very first time, noticed this and said, "Oh, no. I think not." (Nothing against brown eyes; he just felt that personally they were not for him.) And with a snap of his fingers, his eyes became whatever-the-fuck color they are, a mixture of green and blue and gold. Rather cringe-worthy, yes, but it was Aziraphale's prerogative. Besides, it was millennia before such eyes became de rigueur in the pages of the more soppy brand of romantic novels, so he was really on the cutting edge of the trend when you think about it. [return to text]

7 Crowley wasn't nearly so competent, for a start. [return to text]

8 Aziraphale couldn't know it at the time, but Crowley would also someday love a black automobile that had just rolled off the production line. [return to text]

9 The two would, in fact, never again trade missions. The Arrangement, in its original form, was gone forever. Oh, they would work together on mad schemes, of course (raising a random boy together comes to mind), but their formal agreement was quite finished. It would be replaced by something very strange indeed—fellowship. This new phase of their acquaintance would be marked by leisurely lunches and late-night rambles, and would be blissfully free of "shop talk" for the most part. Aziraphale had no way of knowing this at the time, though, and so you can understand his fear. Change is hard. Even (especially) for angels. [return to text]

  
10 Look it up. [return to text]

11 The closest we can transcribe it is "Ngk." [return to text]

12 When you wear trousers that tight, sacrifices must be made. [return to text]

13 He could have broken free at any time, of course. Angels are physically stronger than demons no matter how you slice it, but Aziraphale would've never boasted about such a thing. [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> ETA these amazing fanarts by [ThePartySparkle](https://twitter.com/ThePartySparkle/status/1210342086677073924) and [Aphrodisiacbeans](https://twitter.com/Aphrodisiacbean/status/1210410295807664128)! So Beautiful <3
> 
> You can find me [@triedunture](https://twitter.com/triedunture) on Twitter.
> 
> Happy holidays, obstinatrix! I hope this fits the bill. 
> 
> Thanks to drawlight for the beta!
> 
> Further reading:
> 
> [600-Year-Old Bras Unearthed in Austrian Castle](http://newsfeed.time.com/2012/07/19/600-year-old-bras-unearthed-in-austrian-castle/) (Time, 2012)
> 
> [The Ritz, London, WWII Years](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ritz_Hotel,_London#World_War_II) (Wikipedia)
> 
> [Plus Size Elsie Babydoll Set](https://www.yandy.com/Plus-Size-Elsie-Embroidered-Halter-And-Panty.php?gid=368768&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=1555704143&utm_content=64828199887&utm_term=368768&gclid=Cj0KCQjw6KrtBRDLARIsAKzvQIHPyqRk2zFiHP8MQj2FlBM8bcNg7rWOQ3I4aOSZfyJGGq-UNnhTKqcaAi_REALw_wcB) (Yandy.com, $39.99)


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